elsewhere
by metaphorically-blue
Summary: /Dominic Anemone/ Here's to who we could've been, who we ought to be. /50alternates/
1. psychic

**Title:** seems like you could read my mind**  
Author:** MM-Kokopelli**  
Pairing:** Dominic/Anemone**  
Fandom:** Eureka SeveN**  
Prompt:** other worlds, #17 psychic**  
Word Count:** 868**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own Eureka SeveN.

Her back is to him.

She's wearing the standard issue uniform, a black spandex suit that hugs her figure and covers her fingers and feet, making her one with the shadow of the old brick building—or she would be, if her hair weren't pink. The alleyway is dark, the streetlights blocked from view. It's better that they blend, better that they are kept within shadows.

That way, no one can see the bodies.

Her face is splattered with blood that spurted from the man in front of her, who is now a crumpled figure on the ground. Turning her head, she looks at the graffiti-ed walls through half-lidded eyes, the distinctive purple irises scanning the darkness.

"That was messy."

She made her way towards the place where the male voice came from, stopping in front of a fire escape, cocking her head.

"What am I supposed to do, let him die slow so I don't get blood on the street?"

A moment of silence passes, and the faint noise of cars rushing on the streets of downtown reaches their ears.

"That would be preferable."

She shrugs, swinging her hair behind her shoulders. "Whatever, Dominic. Besides, he was a serial killer." With a pause, she looks at the corpse behind her, which is barely recognizable as a human being, with blood coating the face and clothing. "I wanted it to hurt."

A small thump, and she can hear him walking towards her, his steps quiet. "You have blood on your face."

She licks her cheek absently, buffing a nail. "Yeah, yeah. Forcing a guy to relive their worst nightmares and rupturing their inner organs can do that to a girl."

When he rolls his eyes, she can almost hear him do it. The fire escape creaks, the rusted metal straining from added weight, and she knows that he's leaning against it, arms crossed and eyes half-closed, watching her carefully (because that's his job, to watch her and be cautious for her and leave no signs that the two of them exist). They stand like that for a while, her watching the seemingly abandoned fire escape of an old apartment building, and him watching (out for) her.

"Can you turn visible now? Its getting really irritating talking to empty air."

A sigh, and another figure in black slowly appears, a young man with dark hair and grey eyes. He frowns, considering his hands, watching as his left pinky regained its normal hue. Looking up, he glances at her face again and frowns. "You still have blood on you."

She grimaces at the shadows, twisting her mouth. "It tastes gross." Rubbing her arms, she turns to face him, hair swinging and eyes opening wider, until more than a hint of lavender is visible—now he can see the bloody stripe of scarlet that slashes across her iris.

Shoving his hands into pockets, he watches her walk forward until the two of them are scant inches apart. She takes a breath in, and lets it out with a huff.

"You had something sweet, didn't you?"

He shrugs. "Might have."

Glaring at him, she takes another breath, smelling the air. "And I can't even figure it out…"

"Don't even try it, Anemone. I'm your Handler."

Pouting, she turns away, crossing her arms. "Yeah, yeah. You know I'm not going to read you." She glances at the body again, takes in the damage that she's caused. "Them, however…" Walking over, she prods the body with a single toe, and frowns when more of the crimson blood coats her foot. "Them, I can read. Isn't that right?"

He nods quietly, and quotes softly, "Handler watches Reader, Reader spares Handler."

They know the code. It's how they get by, in this world of madness and mutations.

"Mmph. So where to next, eh, Dominic?" A quick sashay, and she's standing next to him, their shoulders almost touching. He checks a small handheld device, produced from some pocket near his chest.

"We have to find the Nirvash team."

Her grin becomes shark-like, showing teeth in a sinister smile. "Ooh. That's going to be _fun_."

They start to walk towards the entrance to the sidewalk when she pauses and he frowns, not turning around, not yet. "What?"

The rustle of her uniform alerts him, and he turns his head at her while steadily fading, scanning for attackers—but all he sees is her frowning there, looking at the empty space where he…isn't.

"…What, Anemone?" He walks towards her, his senses alert, his body barely visible.

Her eyes lock with his, and in one swift motion, she pulls him forward and kisses him—and there isn't anything soft or tender about it, because an occupation with a one hundred percent fatality rate can do that to you, can make everything a little harsher and sharper and far more intense than it is for normal people, with normal lives and normal abilities (_because whatever they may be, it is most definitely not normal_).

They pull away from each other, and she frowns at him.

"You did have something sweet. Meanie."

When they walk away together, he tosses behind a small device, and the corpse is blown to pieces.

(_Rule Number One: We don't exist.)_


	2. immortal

**Title:**eyes are windows (look in mine)**  
Author:**MM-Kokopelli (That would be me.)**  
Pairing:** Dominic/Anemone**  
Fandom:** Eureka SeveN**  
Prompt:**other worlds, #13 immortal**  
Word Count:** 644**  
Disclaimer:** I own at many things. E7 isn't one of them. (But I'd really like Dominic. XD)

In her one thousand, seven hundred, and sixty-two years of living, he was the third guy she'd met who'd caught her eye.

Most of the men she'd met in such a long existence seemed, after a while, to be just carbon copies of the same sort of personality. There were grizzled dark strangers, sweet boys who weren't men yet, smart-aleck slackers—she'd tried them all out, and most of the time, she broke them. None of those men could keep up, and now, she was bored out of her wits.

So it had been a fairly drab, uneventful evening when she plunked herself down at a nearby club, grabbing a drink and watching the strobe lights flash and the music pulse. That is, uneventful, until she saw him.

He seemed nondescript, at first. Just a guy, one with black hair, a thin frame, and big hands curling around a glass of water. Besides a few glances from some dancers, he seemed to be alone and unbothered.

She watched him quietly, only to find him looking up. After a moment of surprise, she found herself regarding cool grey eyes. Embarrassed to be caught staring (after all, she was almost eighteen hundred years old, she really shouldn't get caught staring, _especially_ at some guy), she looks away, but not before noticing that his eyes are a deep shade of grey.

After an hour passes, she was still sitting and he was still there, so she decides to meet inevitability and walks over.

He didn't look up from his drink, but stated, "You were the one watching me."

Eyebrow lifted, she responded with, "Is this how you talk to a girl?"

He laughed into his water, a grin flashing across his features. "I figure you like to speak your mind."

She snorted, in a highly unladylike way. "You could put it that way." Pausing, she considered him, tipping her head in her hand. "So what brings you here? I haven't seen you around before."

With an insolent expression, he replied. "Oh, I've been here and there."

"Hmph."

She doesn't remember how long they talked that particular night. However, she does know that the next day, she came over, and he was there, with his cup of water, and they continued their banter for another evening, ignoring the dancers and inebriated fellow patrons of the hole-in-the-wall club.

…

By the fifth day, she was kissing him, her hands twisting in his hair and his hands wrapping around her waist. Soon enough, though, he pulled apart, looking her with those eyes of his.

She knew a lot about him. She knew he was an investigator into "weird crap", and used to live on all seven continents. She knew his favorite drink (soda) and whether he liked cats or dogs (cats).

He didn't know a single thing about her, so she knew she had to expect the question, but it still took her by surprise.

"When were you born, Anemone?"

She deliberated, stalling. "June 15th."

Coolly, he raised an eyebrow. "I meant the year."

Inwardly, she cursed (_oh crap, he knows, and this is _so_ not good_) before finally responding. "1990."

"Really." His expression was deadpan, but something inside made her gut twist, and she grimaced.

"… 246 A.D."

He nodded, his face becoming less serious. "I can deal with that." After a second, she realized she was gaping, and he grined. "I've already dealt with weird crap from my investigator gig, I can deal with an immortal girlfriend."

She frowned up at him. "You realize that I'll outlive you. I won't be changing anytime soon."

Shrugging, he leaned down again, meeting her eyes with his. "We can cross that bridge when we come to it." His breath tickled her neck.

When he kissed her again, she reflected that she'd always been a sucker for gorgeous eyes.

_FIN_


	3. sun god

**Title:** archaeology is overrated  
**Author:** MM-Kokopelli  
**Pairing:** Dominic/Anemone  
**Fandom:** Eureka SeveN  
**Prompt:**other worlds, #40  
**Word Count:** 706  
**Disclaimer:** There is no ownage. Which is sad. But whatever.

When he got into the adventuring business, they made it sound like there would be pretty girls, alcohol, pretty girls, treasure, pretty girls, international fame, and pretty girls. Or at least, that's what the guys had said about it (well, he supposes that they were raving drunk, but still), complete with the four mentions of pretty girls.

Well, maybe there is some alcohol, and some treasure, and a little bit of international fame. But right now, he is really missing the "pretty girls" part of the whole deal.

"Let go of me, you cretin!" He feels a sharp pain somewhere on his neck as he runs like hell, hearing the shouts of angry natives with darts and poison-tipped spears behind him. The girl he has thrown over his shoulder is unappreciative (and probably not pretty, he hasn't bothered to look under the ceremonial gold mask yet), and somehow able to speak English, all while continuing to gnaw on his ear in protest of her current position.

He decides that it would be smartest to keep silent, and continues racing through the overheated jungle, some gold jingling in his rucksack.

When they finally outrun the very, very angry natives who were very, very homicidal over his impromptu entrance into their oh-so-important-and-special ceremony, he sets her down, none-to-gently (because his ear really _freaking _hurts, stupid native girls with stupid extra-sharp canines), she takes off the mask and scowls at him.

She has pink (_pink?_ The _hell?_ What kind of Amazonian genetics did _that_ come from?) hair and purple (_holy…_) eyes and the most irritated expression he has ever seen on a female face.

And she was pretty. Sort of. In an irritated, get-away-from-me-you-freak kind of way, which he didn't find all that attractive. Really. He didn't.

Of course, as he's looking at her, she decides to slap him.

After a few seconds of pain and stars exploding (because that _hurt_), he decides to get a few things straight with this girl that he saved from certain cutting-open-and-removing-important-things-like-hearts-and-small-intestines-and-_ew_.

She gets ready to slap him again, but he's prepared this time, so he grabs her wrist, winces as she bites his fingers, and begins.

"Look, girl—"

"My name is Anemone, you—" She looks like she's going to go on and on and use every curse word known to man, so he cuts her off in a hurry.

"Okay, Anemone, whatever, but I just saved you from certain removal of inner organs for your stupid sun god, so could you please stop trying to bite me to death? I mean, I don't need a lot, just a little gratitude."

(_And my body intact_, he adds in his head.)

She scowls at him (and it might have been a cute one. Maybe, but he didn't think she was pretty because denial is his forte and she tried to bite his ear off. Yeah…), and they stand there in the clearing underneath the rainforest canopy. Crickets chirp. Howler monkeys howl, and a sloth makes it across a twenty-foot stretch of overgrowth. He knows this because he was watching the sloth the entire time it progressed forwards.

Finally, she holds out a hand, her expression still insolent, and they shake on it—though she doesn't miss the opportunity to pinch his wrist with her nails. After he winces, then they make their way together through the jungle, avoiding things that sound like blow darts or war cries to try to make it back to a base, any base, before they are speared to death. (He thinks that it would be an unfortunate end, what with the lack of pretty girls around, and that would mean the whole trip would be a total waste.)

Five days later, they are on a boat to London, and he is still bitter about the ear biting, and she is still not acknowledging the whole "sacrifice to the sun god" thing, and all the other passengers are placing bets on when they'll just face their feelings and get together already.

It takes a lot of drinks, about two hours worth of coaxing, and thirty dollars for one of the betting men to get him to admit that maybe, just maybe, there might be some pretty girls around.

_um, this isn't like they said_

_FIN_


End file.
